


New school.  New city. New life.

by Raeyl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beacon Hills California, Beacon Hills High School, Good Peter, He was in Washington with Malia, Malia Tate is a Hale, Malia's POV, POV First Person, Peter is a Good Dad, Peter wasn't there for the Hale Fire, Yakima Washington
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raeyl/pseuds/Raeyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malia Hale hates her new school. She hates her new town. She hates her new life.  But most of all she hates her father for making her move her senior year of high school without telling her the reason.  All he would tell her is that he has “unfinished business.”  What is this unfinished business and why did it involve moving to Beacon Hills?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Time to leave the life I once knew, it’s time for something new

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write something in first person and Malia seemed like she’d be the easiest to do since she has elements of her personality that is similar to my own (though I’m more perverse and talkative and annoying in general than she is).
> 
> I like where this story is going and I hope you enjoy it as well.
> 
> I got the amazing [Eeyore9990](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990) as my beta!!! She is amazing go check her out!

New school.  New city. New life.

Those three sentences would not leave my mind.  They were like a never ceasing chant, a witch’s spell cursing me to the ends of the Earth.  They mocked me as I placed the last box into the back of the SUV.  The last box that was tying me to the world I had grown up with, and as I closed the hatch, I lamented the new life ahead of me.

Also, the long car ride.

It was annoying enough to drive two to three hours through Snoqualmie Pass to get to Seattle from Yakima; I didn’t know how I was going to handle 16 hours – more depending on how long/often we stopped for food and potty breaks – on the road.  Why my dad didn’t just buy the $800 plane tickets was a mystery to me. 

Dad never gave me a concrete reason for why he’d rather drive to Southern California just like he never game me more than “unfinished business” as his reason for making me move over 1,000 miles away two days before the start of senior year.  Well, technically, I had an extra week until school started in California but that’s not the point.  The point is my dad is an asshole.

At least I didn’t have to drive. 

After one particularly intense argument – and the destruction of the Italian coffee table – it was decided that if dad insisted on taking the long way about it he would be the one behind the wheel.  And I would choose all food stops, no matter how much out of the way they were – within reason.

“Malia, was that the last box from the house?” Dad asked me once the back hatch was closed.  A glare was my only response before I sat in the passenger seat and slammed the door to the passenger side of the SUV.  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

I refused to look at my dad as he got into the SUV, but I caught the smile he sent my way in my periphery.  I ignored it.  He growled at me.  I smirked.

All my life I’ve observed the world around me.  I am content sitting by myself watching others live their lives.  I was never lonely when I observed the kids around me in the park; my imagination was enough to keep me company.

On those long car rides with dad to Seattle, I would watch the trees through the window and imagine many different stories during those silent hours in the car.  Dad and I rarely spoke while we drove.  It was peaceful, a companionable silence.

This car ride would be silent but it wouldn’t be companionable.

Staring out the windshield, I watched the neighborhood I grew up in pass me by one last time.  I soaked in the images so that I would never forget them and the memories that came along with them.

We drove past the tree in front of the Guerrero’s house where Jesus and I spent the majority of third grade climbing up it to see who could go the farthest, or who could stay in the tree the longest.  One time I even stayed the night in the tree.  Dad brought me a sacked lunch and my sleeping bag and camped out on an adjacent branch.  That was the night dad taught me how to find the different constellations in the night sky.

When we got to the end of the street, we stopped at the battered stop sign that Janie and I used to pelt snowballs at in fifth grade until the police caught us.  I remembered the short ride in the police cruiser and the disappointed look on dad’s face.  He didn’t ground me, but I tell by dad’s behavior that he disapproved of the cops bringing his daughter home.  From that day forward, I made sure to keep my nose clean.

We turned left toward 1st Street – and the freeway – I saw the park where dad taught the neighborhood kids and I how to play basketball after the city paved over the public pool to put in a shit load of basketball courts.  I’m still pissed about that.  No one in our neighborhood could afford more than a kiddy pool.  They did put in a small water park but it’s pretty much just a bunch of oversized water sprinklers shaped like elephants.  It’s fucking stupid.

All the memories were hard to think about. So many good times with people I’d never see again.  I thought I had another year to spend with everyone before we went our separate ways after graduation. The two week notice dad gave me about the move wasn’t enough time. Any amount of time wouldn’t have been enough.

When we turned onto the freeway, I turned back to take one last look at Yakima.  I would miss it.

Goodbye Yakima, Beacon Hills here I come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Yakima, Washington as Malia’s home city since that is where I live. And figured out how long it took to get from Yakima to Lancaster, California since Beacon Hills isn’t a real city – also, it’s in Southern California so maybe it makes sense for how long it took the characters to go back and forth to Mexico (also, why would Mr. Tate get Malia a passport? They must have used fake ones…)


	2. Apparently he wasn’t imaginary, my bad

The entire drive from Washington to California was a blur.

There were trees, bridges, traffic. More trees and more traffic. Honestly, I slept most of the time.  When the car stopped for the last time, dad had to shake my shoulders to wake me up.

“Malia, baby, we’re here.”

Groggily, I looked at the dashboard clock.  11:49 pm.

“I lost the bet,” I said with a yawn, stretching my arms wide, nearly hitting dad in the jaw as I did so.

“I’ll cash in the credit later. We’ll unpack the car tomorrow. Are you awake enough to walk upstairs? Derek said the elevator was broke.” He smirked as he clicked the button of my seatbelt like he used to when I was younger and too in a hurry to leave the car to remember to do so myself.

“You talk about Derek as if he was a real person. I’ve never seen him or spoken to him on the phone. I think he’s just some imaginary nephew you created out of sheer boredom. What type of person refuses to Skype?” I mumbled as I searched the floor for my backpack. I was not leaving my laptop and the change of clothes I had in the car overnight.

“You can ask him yourself when we get to his loft.”

Getting out of the car, I noticed the scarcity of the parking garage.  There was only one other vehicle, a sweet looking Camaro which seemed out of place in a dump like this. It was parked next to a cement support beam that had seen better days. It looked like the Incredible Hulk had punched it. I’m surprised it was even still standing, much less supporting the cement roof of the parking garage.  The place looked abandoned and run down. I hugged my bag close to my chest. I was not getting mugged, nope.

Dad just laughed at me as he clicked the button for the SUV’s alarm system. “Come on, I’m tired. It’s time for bed.”

The further we got into the building, the worse it got.  It was extremely dark. Only a few bulbs here and there worked and they were constantly blinking.  It was enough to give an epileptic a seizure.  I had come to the conclusion that my cousin Derek lived in a horror film.  If he really existed, that is.

The fucking stairs were the worst.

This murder house of an abandoned building had five flights of steep, cracked, cement steps leading up to the only loft.  If I wasn’t awake before then I sure as hell was now.

“Didn’t you tell me . . .  Derek bought the building . . . with the fire insurance money?” I said in between heavy breaths. I wasn’t an athlete by any means; even if I was, I’d still have difficulties keeping up with dad’s steady stride up the stairs.

“Yes.”

“Then why does it look like… shit?” I gestured to the wall ahead of us. It looked like there was blood splatter on it. Old blood splatter.  “It also smells like piss.”

“Cat urine yes.”

“You can tell the difference between human and cat pee?” I said, raising one eyebrow in question.

Dad raised his own in response. “Our family has a great sense of smell, Malia.”

I just rolled my eyes in response, trudged my way ahead of him, and continued stomping up the final flight of stairs to the only freaking loft in the building.

“Hurry up, old man, I thought you were tired.”

“Malia, knock on the door when you reach it please,” was his only response.

“Yea, sure,” I sarcastically responded, rolling my eyes as I reached the final landing.

The door was a very large metal door; it looked like it slid open.  _Why would someone have such a large door?_  Placing my backpack on the floor next to my feet, I rolled up my sleeves before raising my hand to knock on the door.  It opened before I could.

“Holy shit!”  I grabbed my backpack with record speed and ran to hide behind my dad who had just reached the landing.  Dad laughed.  Well, it was more of a cackle but for dad that was his usual laugh.

“Hi, Derek.”

“That,” I pointed at the shirtless man who was scowling at us looking like he was contemplating how he would marinate our flesh after he murdered us gruesomely, “is my cousin?”

Derek just raised his eyebrows in response.  I tilted my head as I took in his face.  Dad and I had a habit of using our eyebrows as a way to communicate and this guy seemed to have the language down to a T.  It was eerie. 

“Great.  I meet my imaginary cousin for the first time, and I immediately jump to the conclusion that he is a cannibalistic murderer.”  That got a smirk from Derek.  Progress.

“This is my daughter Malia,” Dad said, ignoring my verbal vomit.

“Hi,” Derek deadpanned in response as he slid the massive metal door open more before walking back into the loft.

Dad followed him in. “Coming, Malia?”

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun with this chapter. Making fun of the loft looking like crap. If Derek can afford to own the building, he can afford to fix it up some.  
> 
> 
> I’m also hinting at werewolves being a thing. Malia doesn’t know about it because her werecoyote-ness hasn’t kicked in yet. Blame it on her not being raised in Beacon Hills and near a Nemeton. I’m blaming the Nemeton for kick starting her change when it did. Also, Peter doesn’t think she is a were-anything. She’s still going to be a werecoyote, but it’s going to be a little while :).

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I have at [tumblr](http://raeylokami.tumblr.com) if you guys want to go there and hang/talk to me!
> 
>  
> 
> [My inspiration, background noise whilst writing. ](http://open.spotify.com/user/1223530990/starred)


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